


Time, Unwilling

by Dajra



Series: The Wind and the Tree [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Slight Black Eagles Route Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-16 14:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20840015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dajra/pseuds/Dajra
Summary: It was a murmur more directed at herself than him. A reminder of who she was, not what her dreams thought her capable of.(Byleth struggles with visions of a path she did not take, and of betrayal she never hoped to see.)





	Time, Unwilling

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd, so please excuse any mistakes. I'll try to come back for them.

After five years, the Officer’s Academy of Garreg Mach succeeded in having a full class reunion. But instead of celebrating 1,000 years of holy guidance, they were sending classmates to meet the Goddess by way of flame, sword, and arrow. How sad that the skills they had been taught would be so quickly turned against each other—and that she in turn would be against them.  
  
Turned against them...yes, but she had not imagined it to be like _this_. This scene felt off.  
  
This scene was off because she was _off_.  
  
She was aware of her legs moving, but had not put forth the strength to move them forward. She felt the sword heavy in her palm, but had not willed it to be lifted it above her head. It was her mind but not her body. Not her flesh and not her will.  
  
The will she knew would have not led her to grinding her heel against Claude’s chest, pinning him to the blood-soaked cobblestones. Had they not just saw each other hours before, discussing their shared dreams for all of Fódlan? Hadn’t he just shared his hope for a land unburdened by borders with her, letting her alone privy to the secrets he held closest to his heart?  
  
The words flew at her, a fusillade of indictments unfathomable through the fog of her mind. She was unable to recall the catalyst of the accusations  
  
_(“She burned too brightly, and faded too fast...”)_  
  
“Enough! You’ve bested me.” The look he gave her didn’t belong on his face. Pain, hurt—_fear_. When had she ever done anything to warrant that edge of desperation in his voice?  
  
_(“Why didn’t you retreat? I counted on you retreating!”)_  
  
Claude was weaponless as he raised his hands in a symbol of goodwill, corner of his lips fighting to quirk into a smile despite the purple bruise that grew there. “Wouldn’t it be better to let me go and have me in your debt?”  
  
Why would he need to be in her debt? They were allies in this war, sharing the burdens as equals.  
  
Why would he need to beg her for his life?  
  
Why would she raise her sword higher and—  
  
Her lungs burned from a scream she couldn’t release. She was trapped in a body she couldn’t control, helpless to watch as a bone-white blade sunk into the chest beneath her. Helpless to watch Claude’s eyes widen as color drained from his face to stain his golden coat with crimson.  
  
“I see.”  
  
What was there to see? Nothing about this situation made sense to her, so why was Claude speaking as if this answered something she had yet to comprehend? She reached inside herself to feel the pull of divine power that would let her erase those words, _this scene_—but all she felt was the pull of a sword as Claude wrapped his hands around the blade to hold it in place.  
  
“Right until the very end I’ve read this whole thing...terribly wrong...” A crack in his voice, the tinge of betrayal lacing every word. She wanted to wrench her hands from the blade...wanted to stop the blood flowing from his chest, wanted to grasp the hands of time—wanted to scream.  
  
Her body listened to none of her desperate pleas; she was prisoner in her own skin, forced to watch with unblinking eyes as Claude’s breathing rattled from his broken chest. As blood dripped from his chin as green eyes grew glassy.  
  
“I hope you...really do make the world...better...”  
  
It was the last she heard before his hands loosened their grip on her blade. Before she felt the sick resistance as the body that was no longer hers wrenched blade from bone. Before the screams stuck in her throat rang out in her mind, grasping for anything—_anything_—that would free her from this time.  
  
This time hadn’t been hers. Hadn’t _been_ at all. Couldn’t be hers.  
  
She fought against a will that wouldn’t listen, fought against feet that took her farther and father away from the body they left behind—took her away from her friend, from—  
  
  
  
.  
  
  
  
“—Byleth!”  
  
Suddenly she was in her own skin again, and the flood of sensations was overwhelming. The sound of her labored breathing deafening, the heat on her skin burning, the air in her lungs choking—it was only the firm hands on her shoulders that kept her from rocking backwards out of her seat as she jolted to consciousnesses.  
  
“It’s okay, my friend. It’s just me.” Realization finally set in. Byleth was no longer on a battlefield, but in the Cardinal’s room. The warm glow filtering in from the windows signaled the arrival of dusk...or maybe it was dawn. She wasn’t sure when she had fallen asleep. A foot had hooked around the leg of her chair and turned it away from the table, leaving her to face green eyes—ones that still shined with life. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”  
  
Claude knelt before her, gentle as he guided her balled fists up and used his fingers to peel them open slowly. The motion alerted Byleth to the fact that her hands _hurt_. She could feel an ache in her jaw as well, born from the forceful clenching of teeth and the tang of iron on her tongue. He brought her hands together, rubbing life back into her fingertips with his palms. “Bad dream?”  
  
It was a simple enough question, but Byleth had trouble finding her voice. It was lost somewhere in the vestiges of the dream she still couldn’t shake, eyes glued to the white shirt he wore—free of any crimson.  
  
If he took offense to her silence, then Claude didn’t show it. Instead he gave her hands the smallest of tugs, coaxing her to standing. “Let’s go get your arms cleaned up.”  
  
Her arms...ah. She was made aware of the half-moon gouges that lined her biceps, four for each arm. Blood trailed down to her elbows—she must have been gripping herself as she slept, which explained why Claude had reached for her hands. Byleth didn’t keep her nails especially long, but even blunt nails could dig into flesh with enough force.  
  
She allows herself to be guided out of the room, Claude’s hand firm against the curve of her spine. “I doubt Manuela is back this early, but I should be able to manage something like this by myself.” The chuckle rang hollow to her ears, but she was grateful for the words anyways. It helped to keep her from returning to that battlefield. “Too bad I have no real affinity for white magic, but we all can’t be Marianne, I suppose.”  
  
It’s a quick walk to the infirmary, but Byleth’s sense of time is warped. The moments drag on as she struggles to stay out of her own thoughts, focusing on the heavy fall of her footsteps against stone. She finally drags her glance up from her feet when they reach the large oak doors, Claude pushing them open with his free hand. His touch only leaves her when he sits her down on one of the beds to rummage for bandages—but the absence leaves her feeling frighteningly untethered and cold.  
  
Thankfully he’s back at her side after mere moments, setting jars carefully on the ground next to the chair he pulls up for himself. “You’re in good hands, my friend. I’ve become somewhat of an expert at wrapping bandages since I was a child.” The smile he gives does nothing to uncloud the worry from his eyes. “Typically I only had to bandage myself, though.”  
  
The sting of antiseptic forces a huff of air from her nose, but it is still a welcome reprieve from the lingering numbness of her waking body. Claude gingerly swabs each wound before wiping the blood from her skin, tossing the used cotton onto a tray at his feet. He clicks his tongue sympathetically as he begins to wrap one of her arms. “Must’ve been one hell of a dream you saw.”  
  
Byleth’s free hand covered the one that worked on wrapping the bandage, drawing Claude’s eyes to her face. Her voice was rough with negligence, forgotten since she woke. But she had to speak up, and forced the words from her throat. “You know I would never betray your trust.”  
  
The slight twitch of Claude’s brow asked an unspoken _why_, though his words didn’t probe. “I know.” A simple answer—but spoken with the conviction of a man who couldn’t imagine anything different.  
  
He was pliant as Byleth paused him in his work, grabbing his arm and turning it over with both her hands. To press her thumbs against the underside of his wrist—to feel his pulse. The steady _thump _helped ground her to this reality, the one where she hadn’t stole this rhythm from him. She bows her head, pressing her forehead against the hands that still gripped him. “I would _never_ betray your trust.”  
  
It was a murmur more directed at herself than him. A reminder of who she _was_, not what her dreams thought her capable of.  
  
There’s a thoughtful pause, her focus on the even drumming underneath her fingertips. However, the hand he puts on the top of her head draws her eyes back open. Claude runs his fingers through her hair, a hesitant but soothing motion. “I can’t possibly understand the strain that goddess inside you puts on your mind, as much as I would like to. And I imagine the burdens of war haven’t been easy on your dreams. But let me try to alleviate some of the weight.”  
  
She feels her hair being brushed from her neck, his fingertips pressing into the tense muscles there as he sorts his thoughts with a hum. “Trust is...something that I’ve struggled with since I was young. I learned quickly that misplaced trust could easily spell death for a brat like me. An _outsider_. So I became guarded with it. Never really handed it out freely.”  
  
“I came to Fódlan with the same preconception. I hid my distrust with my smiles when I entered the Officer’s Academy. Used them as a shield really, to keep people from learning more about me. If I was going to be an outsider again, I at least wanted it to be on _my_ _terms_ this time.”  
  
“However...” Claude pauses, the finger massaging her neck slowing. “...I think meeting you changed my opinion on trust. Meeting everyone really, but you...” Another pause, before he chuckles. “...You were _really_ hard to trust at first.”  
  
Byleth finally looks up at Claude’s face, and is met with a grin. “Could you really blame me? You didn’t even know your own age!” His hand moves to her shoulder, lightly pushing her up from her hunched position. She lets go of his wrist—but Claude is quick to catch her hands in his. “That wasn’t your fault, though. And despite all the secrets people kept from you about yourself, you never really kept secrets from us.”  
  
Claude puts her hands together again, holding them firmly. “You never lied, not about anything that mattered. You always tried to answer our questions earnestly. And despite not knowing anything about _us_, or the personal squabbles we had over ancient birthrights and blood-feuds—you always listened. Tried to help us become better people, despite our different backgrounds. Protected us and saved our lives on countless occasions, even though you didn’t owe us anything.”  
  
The smile he gave was small, but genuine, shining through his eyes. “Seeing that, I knew you were the kind of person I could put my trust into. That I can still trust wholly—with everything that I am. You never have to reassure me that you’re trustworthy, because your actions have spoke again and again of that fact. Nothing can change that.”  
  
The words echo in her mind, banishing doubts that dared to linger. The way he spoke of it...the way he spoke of _her_ made her believe that perhaps she was worthy of his trust. Brought forth determination to live up to that feeling.  
  
“I trust you to do what’s necessary. But I also trust that you’ll do what is the best for us—for our allies.” Claude gives a little laugh, smile turning wry. “Perhaps I’ve put too much pressure on you, with all my faith. But that’s not my intent. I just can’t help but feel that we can do the impossible together.”  
  
He frees her hands, if only to grab the bandages that had been tossed aside and forgotten. Byleth stretches her arm out—feeling in control of her body for the first time since she woke—and Claude continues to tend to her wounds, wiping up the blood that had dripped while he spoke.  
  
They sit in comfortable silence while Claude works, Byleth watching his movements as he wraps the first bandage. But as he brings her other arm forward he breaks the calm with a sigh, a knit in his brow. “Thinking back on what I said, though...I never really offered you any real reassurance about your fears, did I?”  
  
Their eyes meet, and he levels her with a serious look. “If you ever need me to change my approach, you’re always welcome to speak up. I’ll make a concentrated effort to reign in my schemes if it will help you sleep easier at night. I swear on it.”  
  
Byleth finds her voice more easily now. “I like you just the way you are.”  
  
The surprised bark of a laugh he gives brings the smallest of smiles to her lips. “And people say _I’m_ free with the flattery!”  
  
Any tension lingering in her chest eases with their easy banter, pulling her far away from false futures. “You’re the one who said I was honest.”  
  
“That I did.” She swears she can almost see a tinge of pink rise to his cheeks—but it’s gone before she can dwell on it, his concentration drawn back to his wrapping.  
  
Claude does offer her a glance after a beat, something soft blooming across his face. “That look suits you better than grief, my friend.” He taps the corner of her upturned lip with a feather-light touch before he ties her bandage—leaving her to blink her surprise. “War isn’t easy for any of us, but we have each other to share the burden with. So don’t be afraid to reach out.”  
  
He stands now that he’s finished tending to her, offering a hand. “That applies both to me and all your little Golden Deer, _Teach_.”  
  
Byleth snorts at the old nickname, but takes his hand anyways. “None of you are little anymore. But I understand what you mean.” When she’s on her feet, Claude takes a moment to toss the soiled cotton and return the jars to their rightful places. But he tosses his arm around her shoulder when he’s done, giving a conspiratorial smile.  
  
“Now, I know we typically convene in your room for drinks when we want to decompress—but let me tempt you into coming to my room this time. Despite my lackadaisical airs, I do also know how to brew a nice pot of tea.” A wink that is full of nothing but mischief is sent her way as he pulls her with him to the door. “Not to mention, I also know of some secret ingredients that help to take the edge off of even the most stressful of days.”  
  
Byleth tries to wipe the emotion from her face, but is forced to hide a smile behind a fist, feigning a cough. “Oh. Should I even dare to ask what it is?”  
  
His smile is all white teeth when he replies, that no-good twinkle still in his eyes. “Whiskey.”  
  
She loses the fight, unable to hide another snort of laughter. “Of course.”  
  
Claude takes it as an answer to his invitation, guiding her down the hall. “Sometimes we all need a little extra help to relax. Nothing wrong with that.”  
  
As they walk down the stairs towards the old dorms, Byleth has to agree.

**Author's Note:**

> My 8 year hiatus from writing fanfiction has been shattered by my absolute thirst for Claude von Riegan. 
> 
> As mentioned before this was unbeta'd, so excuse any mistakes. I was eager to get this out and off my chest before writer's block destroyed it, so I'll try to come back and catch anything I might have missed in my original editing.
> 
> Come be emo with me about how much faith and trust Claude puts in you even if you don't pick his class @spotfast on twitter.


End file.
